


Ozymandias

by Solarcat



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s01e04 The Poisoned Chalice, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-22
Updated: 2008-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarcat/pseuds/Solarcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Arthur can feel his grasp on the world slipping</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ozymandias

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur's expression as Uther pontificated about the inherent evil of sorcerers sort of stuck with me, and that's where this fic came from. I've put a very light twist on the events of episode 4, for which I hope I can be forgiven. *g*

_"Those who practice magic know only evil. They despise and seek to destroy goodness wherever they find it."_

:::

Privately, Arthur thinks the whole thing is hideously unfair. Merlin _nearly_ died, true enough, but he _didn't_, in the end. Whereas Arthur… Arthur can feel his grasp on the world slipping, and it's more terrifying than hanging over that abyss by his fingertips, because he can't tell when the next jolt is going to come, when his strength might give out.

Uther is _wrong_. Completely _wrong_, and Arthur has the proof of it tucked away in his memory, no good to anyone but himself, but completely damning. The light that had guided him—shown him the way to safety at the very moment he had been sure he would die—had also shown him that magic could be helpful, gentle… beautiful. He will never forget the sight of it, he knows, as long as he lives.

Arthur stands, staring over the battlements long after Bayard and his men have disappeared from sight. He knows better than to tell his father. Uther won't understand, and Arthur is slowly coming to terms with the realization that the great Uther Pendragon is not as flawless as he'd always seemed when Arthur was a boy. He remembers staring up at Uther, long ago when his head had barely reached his father's waist, and deciding within himself that his father was surely the greatest man who had ever lived, and that he would do everything he could to follow in his footsteps.

The little boy Arthur had built his father up in his mind—a golden idol, a figure to be looked upon with awe and wonderment and reverence. The young man Arthur can see the gilt sloughing off, piling up like shed snakeskin and flaking away in the breeze; a little ball of magic light burning it all off until there's nothing left of the idol but a man. He spares a moment to mourn that he's managed to earn his father's pride, just when it suddenly seems so much less important than it was before.

Merlin.

It all came back to him, it seemed. Before he'd come, Arthur had been content enough to walk in his father's shadow, to become the man his father wanted him to become—a man, in fact, just like Uther himself. Now…

He hears the words echoing in his head. The voice—so familiar, but ragged and labored and in pain—pitched with worry: _"Leave them, Arthur,"_ as if that were an option, as if he _could_, with Merlin's voice in his head and Merlin's light in his eyes, and _Merlin_, everywhere in him, giving voice to his conscience. Merlin, who he barely knows but trusts with his life; who's _"just a servant,"_ but who somehow is making him believe that if he wants it enough—the thought feels faintly blasphemous—he can be _better_ than his father. A better king… a better _man_. Merlin, who is making him realize, finally, that his father's way is not always the best way.

Arthur rests his forearms on the stone wall, letting his hands hang loosely over the edge, huffing out a breath. Merlin, who clearly has more guts than Arthur had given him credit for. What kind of fool sorcerer _is_ he, to move _to_ Camelot? Into Uther's castle, no less; hiding right under the king's nose. Arthur can't help the laughter that bubbles up in him, spontaneous and incredulous. _Just a servant,_ indeed.

He's still a damned idiot, Arthur thinks, but he's willing to admit to himself that the thought is more fond than dismissive. Merlin's idiocy seems to be saving Arthur's life on a rather consistent basis, and that's enough for him. It's more than any of the toadying noblemen's sons he'd grown up 'friends' with had ever done for him; more than he'd ever _expect_ them to do, honestly. He wonders when he began to see them as something other than himself, when he noticed how selfish they all are. He wonders when he made this decision he seems to have made, not to be like them anymore; to become a better version of himself.

Probably about the time that Merlin's eyes met his over a poisoned wine goblet, heavy with the knowledge that within the cup, death was curled up and waiting.

:::

_"To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all."_

Arthur knows Uther is wrong because he knows, deep inside him, in the most visceral place, that Merlin is nothing at all like the woman he met at the caves. But he doesn't mind, not really. It's fine that Uther is wrong this time—the thought gets easier to bear with every repetition—because Arthur doesn't want to know the heart of every sorcerer. Arthur only wants—only _needs_—to know the heart of one.

Twilight is falling over Camelot, and Arthur takes his leave of the battlements, following the path that will lead him to where Merlin is waiting.


End file.
